


Darkling, I Listen

by LR_Earl



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 802 compliant, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Jonsa babies - Freeform, Post-The Long Night, Pregnancy, Season/Series 08, Slow Burn, jonsa as parents, past Jon/Daenerys, time-travelling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-02 19:57:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18817936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LR_Earl/pseuds/LR_Earl
Summary: The Dragon Queen fell in the Great War, but the pack survived.  Now, as House Stark readies itself for a final showdown against Cersei Lannister and her allied forces, a child with Tully blue eyes and the Stark features suddenly appears in the Godswood with a dire warning about Jon and Sansa’s future.  But why the girl is calling Sansa, ‘Mama?’Season 8, canon-divergent.





	1. Sansa

**Author's Note:**

> This story is result of a question I posed to myself: What would happen if Daenerys fell during the Long Night? A touch of Old magic, slow burn, and Jonsa and this fic is the result. As of this point, only Jon, Sam, and Bran are aware of his parentage. Enjoy!

In the end, the Dragon Queen burned on the funeral pyres along with the rest of the fallen and the heroes of the Long Night. It had been Ser Jorah Mormont who had lit her pyre. Even from her vantage point among the motley crowd gathered to remember the dead, Sansa Stark peered through the stinging, heavy smoke as Ser Jorah wept for his Queen.

He had tried to defend her, Sansa heard, but they had been surrounded and outnumbered once Daenerys had fallen from her dragon. The Old Bear simply wasn’t enough to stop the never-ending flow of wights, and Daenerys had been lost. Apparently, she had died in his arms.

 Looking at the wounded knight as he mourned his Queen, there was a minute part of Sansa that grieved for her former countryman, but the feeling was overshadowed by an immense sense of relief. She clasped her hands together in front of her lest they revealed her worry, and her hope now that Daenerys Stormborn was dead. Above the gathered forces, her Motherless-dragons sang their terrible dragonsong, and when Jon finally bade them all return behind the safety of Winterfell’s broken walls, Sansa was all too happy to leave the dead behind.

More than anything, Sansa longed to sit in the Godswood. Sit and contemplate with the old roots that had outlived her family by millennia, but there was work to be done about the castle. There were injured who still needed attending to, armies who were now leaderless, and the looming threat of Cersei and her forces to the South.

Sansa looked longingly towards the gate that led towards the Godswood but duty and her people called to her. Rest would have to wait.

 Minutes turned into hours and before too long the castle seemed poised for a celebration. A subdued celebration, but life had won out. How could they not celebrate that fact? And very soon, Sansa finalized plans with Maester Wolkan and their steward for a small feast for their remaining factions.

 On the night of the feast, Sansa readied her newest handiwork as her handmaiden wove her northern braids into a crown. Her newest dress was made from a beautiful midnight blue fabric charmed by glass-like wings that caught the light no matter how she turned. It seemed appropriate for tonight’s festivities. Tonight, was for the living, and as the Lady of Winterfell, she would do her best to help encourage the atmosphere. 

As Sansa grabbed her gloves to make the short trek from the Keep to the Great Hall, she paused as she saw Ghost outside in the courtyard. The direwolf had paused at the entrance of the Godswood. Sansa could not explain what drew her steps out of the Keep, as she grabbed her cloak to protect her winter’s chill. Quickly, she made her way across the courtyard and away from the laughter and music coming from the Great Hall until she reached the white sentinel guarding the entryway to her family’s sacred grove.

“What is it, boy?” Sansa asked her brother’s familiar as she approached the great beast. The large direwolf turned his piercing red gaze upon her before turning its head back towards the Godswood. Then he trotted off into the dark forest without making a sound.

Perplexed, Sansa followed and called into the darkness, “Ghost?” She followed the familiar path until she came upon the silent wolf wagging its tail as he made its way to the Heart Tree. Ghost sat on his haunches by the foot of the tree and whined as she neared.

Her brows drew down in confusion. Just as Sansa was about to reach out and ask the direwolf what did he want, a young child appeared from around the large white root of the tree. 

Startled, the child held onto the tree and stared up into Sansa’s eyes. The young girl had to be about three or four years old, and was dressed in a soft blue and grey cotton dress. A small cloak covered the girl’s frame as she held onto the Heart Tree.

Lowering to a crouch, Sansa smiled and prepared to ask the child if the girl was lost. But quickly, the child rushed forward to grab onto her leg.

“Mama!” the girl shouted. “I found you. I was so scared!”

Sansa’s knees wobbled as the small child toppled her over into the light snow that lined the ground. “I’m sorry. What did you say?” she asked, breathlessly. Surely the child was confused from wandering away from the festivities. 

The girl’s vice-like grip tightened about her legs.

 “Mama!” the girl cried again into her skirts.

 Sansa blinked back the confusion as the child clung to her skirts and started to wail into her dress. Ghost walked over and started to nuzzle the girl’s back as she wailed. Making a hasty decision, Sansa picked up the child and with Ghost on her heels quickly made her way back into the Keep. One way or another, she would get this girl back to her parents. 

With every step she took through the Godswood, little did Sansa know that one path was being erased, and an entirely new one was being charted. 


	2. Arya

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the positive reception to this story! Enjoy this next installment!

Arya Stark bade her hands to remain calm as she lifted the bow and deftly drew back the taut bowstring. In the back of her mind, her father’s calm voice reminded her to keep her elbow high as she loosed the arrow. As it sailed through the air and met its mark, she gave a small smile and promptly picked up another arrow to repeat the process. She blocked out the sounds from Sansa’s feast, which from the sound of it was already in full swing and growing rowdier by the moment. Some part of her had wanted to join in their celebrations. It would be nice to sit with her family and relax in their presence as they celebrated their joint victory over death.

But something itched within the seat of her. Told her she needed to remain sharp. The Dragon Queen may have died, but something _else_ was coming. Another threat would soon be upon her pack, and she needed to prepare. So after nicking some food from the kitchens, Arya quietly made her way to the training yard.

She had spun on her the balls of her feet as she swung Needle in graceful arcs until her toes hurt, and then she pressed through the pain for a few additional rounds. Afterwards, she picked up her bow and arrow as the music dwindled and the cheering faded into the background.

 _Concentrate_ , she thought to herself.

Arya loosened another arrow just as Gendry jumped from its line of fire.  She suppressed a smile as the blacksmith smiled at her and awkwardly began his approach. She had never been fond of her lessons on the proper courtesies, but watching the handsome young smith walk towards her, she wished she had something to fall back on. She could defend herself and others, but there was no proper etiquette on how to handle a rumble in the hay before imminent death.

“Hello, Gendry.”

“Thought you’d be inside celebrating,” he scratched the back of his neck as he greeted her.

“I am celebrating.” She indicated to the bow in hand.

“The war’s over. The dead have been defeated, and you’re still practicing?”

Arya lifted her bow and loosed her next arrow in a single fluid motion. “The war is not over.” Her list was not yet complete, but he did not come find her to talk about that. “Why aren’t you inside celebrating?” she asked instead.

“I was looking for you,” he said simply.

She turned to face him fully then, and her scrutinizing gaze met his honest one. She lifted a corner of her mouth. It would be easy to fall for him, she decided then and there. Her girlhood crush could easily blossom into a future with this blacksmith. The thought, however, made her tighten her grip on her bow and she swallowed, uncomfortable with the sudden turn in the conversation.

“Well, you found me. What do you want?” Her words were callous, but she would not apologize for it as he flinched at her bluntness.

Gendry, however, wasn’t deterred. “I’ve been thinking about staying for bit, now that the war’s over. I could help with the rebuilding, you know?”

Arya nodded in agreement. “You could. Thank you for staying. I’m sure my family will be grateful for all the help they can get.”

He furrowed his brows, as if he did not understand her response. “I’m not very good with words, Arya. But what I’m trying to say, is that even if they didn’t need my help, I would want to. Stay, that is.”

Her breath caught in her throat, and fear seized her heart. She had not felt fear when she’d charged at the Night King, but here, Gendry had succeeded where he’d failed. “Why?” she asked, suspicious, although the answer thundered between her ears.

Gendry shrugged as if there were no other possible response he could give. “I want to be with you. You’re beautiful, and...” He trailed off and as if deciding best to get on with it, stated simply, “I love you. Fighting against death makes me wants to hold onto what feels good and what feels right. You and me, feels good and feels right, I’d reckon.” He finished with a lopsided smile that made her heart squirm.

Arya blinked, unsure how to respond. She stepped closer to Gendry and all of his stupid declarations, but they were interrupted by a new presence. She turned as Ghost appeared from the darkness, but it was the sight of her sister, breathless and shaken, and carrying a crying child that confused her.

“Who is that?” Arya asked, nodding at the child, as she took in her typically stoic sister’s jittery state. She wasn’t sure if Sansa was clinging to the child or if the child was clinging to her, but her sister’s distress was easily noted. “What’s happened?” She laid down the bow, and rested her hand on Needle’s hilt, ever at the ready.

“I don’t know. I-I found her, in the Godswood,” Sansa breathlessly replied. Her sister’s eyes nervously flit over to Gendry, then back to Arya.

Arya followed her gaze to Gendry before affirming for her sister, “You can trust him.” Gendry may not have been a part of their pack, but still, Arya felt the truth of the statement within her bones.

As if on cue, Gendry nodded in the affirmative and replied, “Arya’s like family. I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”

Sansa slowly nodded, before explaining, “I followed Ghost into the Godswood, and she was there. I’m not sure how long she’d been out there.” Sansa tried to angle the child to face Arya, but the girl’s face remained buried in Sansa’s cloak. “She was terrified when I found her. I thought she must be an orphan, from the war…”

Examining the bundle in Sansa’s arms, Arya remarked, “Not with a cloak like that.” The little girl was draped in a rich, blue cloak with an exquisite pattern. The stitching looked to be very fine, indeed. Her dress and shoes weren’t made for a commoner, either. So how would a Northern orphan end up with such a cloak, dress, and shoes? “She give you a name?” she inquired further.

Her sister shook her head, which proved a feat, since the little girl’s arms were wound tightly about her neck. “Arya… she called me her mother.”

Arya narrowed her eyes at this. “Maybe her mother fought in the war, then.”

Sansa shifted the girl in her arms. “I need to see her to the orphanage, but I don’t think she’ll let me go.”

Arya smiled at that as she maneuvered behind Sansa to get a better look at the girl. “Doesn’t seem likely.” She peered up at the small face hidden within her sister’s cloak. “Hello, little one.” One sky blue eye peeked out from beneath the grey furs. “There you are. My name is Arya. Do you have a name?”

The little girl turned and slowly revealed the face that had been hidden. Even in the low light, Arya could make out the slope of the girl’s nose, and her cheeks, for they matched her own. Except her eyes. Those were Sansa’s eyes.

Swallowing the questions that built in her throat, Arya maintained a calm and soothing presence for the little girl. Hands clasped behind her back, she smiled at the girl. “My sister used to call me ‘Arya Underfoot’ when I was about your age. Do you have any sisters or brothers?”

The little girl nodded as silent tears fell out of her eyes.

“Did they call you a nickname, too?” Another nod gave Arya the encouragement to continue. “And what was it?”

“Lya,” the girl replied on a wobble. Sansa gasped, but from her vantage point Arya could not read her expression. Lya could be short for her Aunt’s name, Lyanna, but such a name, and any variations of it, was common throughout the North.

“Do you know where they are?” Another shake of the head. “And your parents?” Arya could read the distress building in Lya’s eyes and immediately dropped the questioning. “Never mind that now. You must be hungry. Would you like a sweet?”

Lya sniffled and nodded.

“Wonderful. My friend here…” She pointed to Gendry beside her, and offered, “…will grab you some oatcakes from the kitchens. Would you like that?”

Lya turned in Sansa’s arms to face Gendry, who was watching the scene unfold with fascination. He’d never seen her interact with kids, Arya realized. The change in her disposition must’ve been surprising, and Arya bit her bottom lip to hide a smile at the thought.

However, it was Arya’s turn to be surprised when Lya suddenly exclaimed through her tears, “Gendry!” The girl leaned forward and reached her hands out to the blacksmith. Not knowing what else to do, Gendry accepted the girl into his arms as she hugged his neck just as fiercely.

Arya faced her sister with a withering glare that demanded answers.

“Why are you staring at _me_?” Sansa exclaimed back, just as shocked.

“Gendry, would you mind escorting Lya to the kitchens for some oatcakes? I’m sure if you ask nicely, the cook will share some with you.” As they left, Gendry happily answered the little girl’s questions and Ghost trotted off to follow the pair. Arya observed it all carefully. “Why would she know his name?” she mused as soon as they were out of sight.

Sansa sat on nearby barrel and wearily rubbed her temples. “I don’t know! That’s most I’ve heard her speak since I found her.” She lifted a sharp gaze and noted slowly, “You’re good at that. Talking to children.”

Shrugging a shoulder, Arya replied, “She was scared and alone. I know how that feels.” Both of them were quite familiar with the feeling, she knew, but that was neither here nor there. Arya crossed her arms and inspected her sister. She did not want to ever play the game of faces with her, but she needed the truth of it. “She has your eyes, Sansa.” The statement booked no room for argument.

Sansa, however, did not meet her gaze and stared at her hands placed on her knees as if she could find the answers in the space between her fingers.  “I can’t make any sense of it.”

“Is she your bastard?” Arya asked calmly.

That drew Sansa from her reverie as she leveled Arya with heated look. Aghast, Sansa replied, “I think I would’ve recalled giving birth, Arya.”

“Maybe you wanted her hidden away?”

Sansa stood from the barrel, and drew to her full height. The stoic Lady of Winterfell quietly replaced her distraught sister as she coolly remarked, “And I would’ve conveniently kept this secret from Bran, and from Jon? What sense would that make?”

“It could make sense if she were Ramsay’s.”

Sansa’s jaw dropped, and immediately, tears clouded her eyes. Well, there was the truth of it. Swallowing, Arya replied just as quickly, “I’m sorry. I know how much he hurt you. I wanted to be sure.”

Sansa blinked through the tears, and turned her head away to collect herself. Arya allowed her the moment. A few passed before her sister whispered, “I would’ve told you if… if it were so. I’ve not given birth to a child, any child.”

“But even you must admit the resemblances are uncanny,” Arya pointed out.

“Maybe she’s related to the Karstarks? We do share the same blood. It would explain the similar features.”

“I’ve seen your pretty blue eyes in anger, and in sadness, and in times of joy since we were children, Sansa. I’d think I’d recognize them anywhere,” she countered softly. Eventually, Sansa met her gaze. “You said Ghost led you to the Godswood?” When Sansa nodded, Arya continued, “Now he’s taken to following her. Don’t you find that odd?”

“I find this entire evening to be odd!” she countered, hotly. “I need your help. What should I do? I can’t keep to my duties as the Lady of Winterfell with a child following after me. People will start to ask questions.”

“I don’t know.” At her sister’s contemptuous look, Arya frowned. “What do you want me to do?”

Worrying her bottom lip, Sansa came to a decision. “She seems taken with Gendry for the moment. Give me some time to inquire with the steward. If her family’s missing, or someone is looking for her, then we should see her home safely at once.”

Arya silently wagered all of that would lead them back to this very spot, but she kept her thoughts to herself for now. “And what then? If she’s not an orphan from Wintertown?”

Her Lady's mask crumbled before her eyes as Sansa sat wearily on the barrel once more. “I don’t know, Arya. I have two foreign armies to contend with, two dragons that may very well eat us should they feel the inclination, and not to mention a forthcoming war with Cersei. She hasn’t forgotten about us, and we can’t afford to forget about her.”

Arya nodded, once again grateful she was no Lady. She would’ve been shit at it. “Alright. Get us a room in the Keep for Lya. She can’t stay with one of us without the servants asking questions. We’ll get her settled and leave you to find her family.” Arya took hold of her sister’s forearm. No doubt Sansa’s attention  had returned to her ever-pressing list of duties. “But if you can’t, then we need to tell Bran and Jon. You can’t expect us to keep this to ourselves.” She lifted her brow to ensure Sansa understood her point. Sansa nodded before turning her head.

Following her sister's gaze, Arya spotted Gendry walking hand in hand with the girl. He moved slower, more gently even, as he laughed and walked with Lya. Ghost remained vigilant at the girl’s side, and if the girl was frightened at the direwolf that loomed beside her, she made no mention of it.

Arya hummed. “Never met a child who wasn’t afraid of a large wolf. How… odd.” Arya caught Sansa’s gaze, as her sister let out a shaky breath.

“Not a word on this, Arya. Please.”

“You have my word,” she promised as the pair made their way over, a sweet treat in hand.  

Sansa smoothed her skirts before lowering to a crouch to talk softly to the child. She explained she had to tend to the feast, but would be back to visit her and Gendry soon. The girl was still frightened but seemed less so, now that she clung to Gendry’s hand and Ghost pressed into her side. Sansa nodded at the girl’s resolve, perhaps because it mirrored her own, and stood to her full height. She mouthed ‘thank you’ to Gendry before taking off for the Great Hall and the feast within, leaving Gendry and Arya alone with the child.

Gendry, it seemed, was wonderful with children as well, as he eyed Lya and her with a growing smile. Just as he was about to note yet another one of their shared similarities, Arya bade him, “Oh, shut up!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: A shaken Sansa returns to the feast and attempts to soothe her worry with drink. But distractions, and Jon, abound.


	3. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank the Gods for fanfiction, is all I can say!
> 
> Jon and Sansa have one of the many conversations we deserved. Enjoy!

Wine and ale flowed freely through the Great Hall as revelers and allies alike celebrated their victory over death. The Lady of Winterfell entered the celebration unnoticed as varying factions of Freefolk and Northmen, Knights of the Vale and Essosi warlords supped and drank together. Very quickly, the atmosphere morphed from a sullen remembrance into a grateful celebration of life.

Sansa grabbed a goblet from a serving girl’s tray as it whizzed past her and took a hearty sip before lingering along the perimeter, ever watchful of the guests who shared food and drink beneath her roof. She was responsible for these people now, all of them, now that the Dragon Queen was dead. Tonight, they celebrated and cheered together, but what was to stop them from quarreling tomorrow? It would only take one small disagreement before they dissolved into fighting. And not to mention the dragons that roamed the skies above… 

Sansa took another sip of her wine and bade those thoughts to the back of her mind for now. But no matter how much she drank, or how much small talk she took part in, a small child with Tully blue eyes was never far from her thoughts.

Of all the Stark children, Sansa was the one least touched by magic. Her younger brother was the Three-Eyed Raven and could see all manner of events occurring in the past or present. Her sister could do something or the other with just a person’s face. She wasn’t exactly sure of Arya’s gift, but she knew enough to know that it was a deadly one. And Jon… had been brought back from the veil of death. And yet, Sansa who never experienced wolf dreams or anything magical could not escape the feeling that overcame her when she took Lya into her arms. There was a sense of rightness so much so that it scared her. Was Lya somehow connected to the Old Gods? But what could it mean?

It would be a lie to say that Sansa no longer dreamed of children, a family, and a home similar to what her mother and father had. Foolish dreams were for foolish minds, she saw that know, but it didn’t stop a sliver of her heart from wanting. A few nights ago, they were contemplating the end of life, and even when rushing out to defend her people in the crypts, one of her last thoughts was how she would never have a family of her own. Was it naive to dream of a life beyond war, and betrayal? Beyond Dragons and White Walkers?

Her pensive thoughts must’ve slipped through her mask, for soon Jon joined her at one of the long tables in the galley. Her sorrow had called out to his, it seemed. The former King and the Lady sat in comfortable silence for a moment until he nodded his head at the High Table.

“They were looking for you earlier.” Jon clutched his mug as he sat across from her. His easy Northern burr drew her from her reverie. Even with the war over, he sat hunched in his seat as if the weight of the world were still upon his shoulders. He looked terrible as if he hadn’t slept properly in days.

Sansa looked to her hands and the half-empty goblet positioned between them. “I had to speak to Arya. She’s practicing in the courtyard.”

A corner of his mouth quirked, as Jon quipped, “Still?”

“One war is over, but another awaits us,” she reminded him with a pointed brow. It wasn’t fair that their people celebrated around them while they discussed another looming war, but they could not afford to rest just yet. 

“I thought it would be over,” Jon mused into his mug. “With Daenerys …,” he trailed off, uncomfortable at the mere mention of her name. Sansa bristled and quickly took another sip as she steadied her fingers, lest they give away her annoyance. Even in death, she was jealous of the silver-haired queen’s hold over her brother. Jon continued, unaware of her true feelings. “...I thought we’d find some peace for a bit. We’ve been fighting or preparing for a fight for so long now. ”

Sansa reached a hand out to cover Jon’s. At the simple touch, a jolt ran across her flesh and along the underside of her arm. Suddenly, her dress felt too tight and hot on her skin. Jon blanched just as quickly, and she wondered if he, too, had felt something as well. “The war’s not over for us, Jon.”

He nodded, resigned to the fact. “I know it isn’t.”

“And our people will need their King,” she firmly reminded him. Jon drew his hand away from her and she lowered her brows in confusion. She pursed her lips and made to stand from the table. “The North Remembers.” His melancholy mood must’ve bled from him to her with a mere touch because Sansa found herself drowning in emotion. Anger, sadness, and worry haunted her as she made her way out of the Great Hall.

But she was not alone, as a pair of footsteps shadowed her own.

Jon replied, ever on her heels. “It’s time we talked, Sansa. Really talked.”

A sense of inevitability hung over them both, but Sansa huffed over her shoulder, content to not make it easy for him. “I don’t want to fight with you.”

“You’ve been avoiding me ever since I’ve returned,” Jon answered, just a step behind her. 

“And what gave you that notion?” Sansa cooly replied as she entered her solar. She sat her goblet down on the table and kept her back to him and the frustration she was sure to find there.

“Would you look at me, Sansa?” The desperation was clear in his voice, but as she spun to face him, she could not hide her contempt.

“How can I?” she nearly scowled, as she recounted her people’s worry and fear when their King finally returned. “Every time I do, I see someone who gave away our home, our land, and your crown. And for what?” The snide was hard to miss, but behind closed doors, she was free to air her displeasure.

“I did it for you!” Jon nearly shouted, with bated breath. Sansa faltered and took a step back, thrown at the admission. He couldn’t possibly have meant what she’d thought, but before she could explore the thought, Jon continued, “I did for Arya, and Bran, and our people so we could live. We’d be dead without her!”

Sansa narrowed her eyes. “Arya killed the Night King, Jon. Not Daenerys. While you were out flying on dragons, our people were fighting and bleeding for Winterfell!” A part of her knew it was not a fair statement, but a part of her wanted him to see the pain he’d caused.

Surprised, Jon swallowed before asking, “You saw me?”

Smirking, she replied in a measured tone, “I was on the battlements until it was time to evacuate to the crypts. But yes, I saw you.”

Jon huffed and waved it away. “That doesn’t matter. What’s done is done. We’re alive now. All of us. What it took to get there shouldn’t matter.”

“ ‘We need to trust each other,” Sansa repeated his words back to him and watched as hurt seeped into his eyes. “ ‘We have so many enemies, now.’ I’ve maintained our bannermen’s faith in you when they wanted to unname you King. I’ve maintained faith in _you_ when you’ve afforded me little in return. How dare you stand before me and tell me what it took to get there shouldn’t matter? It does matter!” It meant everything she wanted to snarl at him, but she bit her tongue as righteous anger swarmed about her.

Jon swallowed and glanced at his feet. Properly chastised and with a long sigh, he nodded his head. “You’re right.” He huffed a humorless laugh and shrugged. “I was faced with an impossible choice, Sansa. Do what I knew to be wrong, and save everything I held close. Or stand against a queen who would bring us fire and blood, and watch my home burn. I made the only choice I could. Because there wasn’t one. Not really.” He raised his head to look at her, and she could see the misery in his eyes.

Her resolved waivered, and though her anger lessened, it would not yet leave. Sansa stepped closer and took ahold of his scarred hand. “You needn’t make the choice alone, Jon.” She squeezed his hand and reminded him softly, “The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.”

A corner of his mouth quirked up. “Can you forgive me?”

The answer was written across her heart before the words left her lips. “There’s nothing to forgive,” she echoed his words back to him.

He smiled, truly this time, as he recalled their conversation back at Castle Black. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Jon swallowed deeply, his hand still firm within hers. “Forgive me,” he insisted on a whisper.

Searching his eyes for the sincerity she so desperately sought, Sansa tried to place herself in Jon’s shoes. What would've she had done had it been her faced with an impossible choice? If Jon, Arya, and Bran were waiting at home while an impossible, dangerous King loomed large over everything she held dear. What would she do to secure her people’s safety? Her family’s safety? A sharp inhale of breath and the answer was made clear. It struck her gut as sharp and as hot a hot iron and her stomach hollowed out from the truth of it. She would do anything.

“I forgive you, Jon,” she whispered and by chance, her gaze dropped to his lips. A blush stained her cheeks as she quickly averted her gaze, ashamed of having done so. _It is the wine ,_  she thought to herself, but a dark part of her whispered that it was not. “Next time, remember you are not alone.” With a final squeeze, she dropped his hand and made her way to her desk where books and scrolls awaited her. She hummed over the stacks of paperwork and mused aloud, “They still call you, ‘Your Grace,’ have you noticed?” It was difficult not to watch him, but even still, she was aware of his presence behind her. It took up the entire room and occupied every inch of her chest. Why was it suddenly so difficult to breathe?

“It’s hard to miss.”  A lightness returned to his voice, granting her the space to resume normal functions around him.

Sansa sighed as she turned to look at him, pointedly. “They won’t forget that they named you our King.”

“Aye, I haven’t either, but I gave up my crown to save the North.”  
  
“And now the Dragon Queen is dead,” she stated the obvious.

Jon shifted on his feet, unsure how to respond, and her heart clenched at the sight. It was difficult to do so, but she offered her condolences all the same. “You loved her,” she cooly announced to his silence and the cackling of the fireplace. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

He sighed and moved to wearily sit in one of the few chairs the room provided. “I cared for her ...  but I never loved her. Not like she wanted me to, anyway. She was… she was my family,” he stated to the fireplace and the flames dancing within.

The disbelief was hard to conceal, and Sansa did not bother to. “What are you talking about?”

Jon turned to her and sighed. He rubbed wearily at the scar over his eye, but he seemed determined. Tonight was a night for airing all of their grievances, it seemed. “I need to tell you something.”

The concern was immediate as she watched Jon struggle to articulate what he wanted to say. “What is it?” she encouraged him.

“Bran and Sam… they found out who my mother was.”

Sansa swallowed and allowed him the space to continue. It was hard to contain her physical response as Jon calmly explained that he was never her brother. Distantly, she heard him explain how Father had always remained faithful to her mother and chose to compromise his honor to protect his sister’s son. His sister’s trueborn son with Rhaegar Targaryen. She heard it all, but she could not process it. And if she was having difficulty comprehending such information, then … Sansa’s head snapped up to look at Jon who was struggling to hold back his tears as much as she was.

She sat on the edge of her desk as her eyes stung and watered. “But that would mean…”

“I could never be King in the North,” was Jon’s watery reply. “I’m not a Stark. I never was.”

As the tears fell from his eyes, Sansa glided from the desk’s edge to floor at his feet. On her knees before him, Sansa took his hand into hers and through her tears, fiercely explained to him, “You are a Stark to me. To all of us. Hang the rest. You’re as much as Ned Stark’s son as Bran is, or Robb, or Rickon.”

With a sad shake of his head, Sansa’s heart broke from him. “But I’m not. It should be you. Winterfell has always been yours.”

“What…?”

With a trembling breath, Jon explained as he looked to their joined hands. “Word of this will eventually get out, Sansa. And when it does…” He met her gaze again. “I won’t have them saying a Targaryen has taken Winterfell from the Starks. I won’t…”

“I wouldn’t let them,” she countered just as hotly, his hand firmly in hers. “Do you hear me, Jon?”

When he did not respond, her heart clenched in synch with his pain. He did not believe her. “You’re still a part of our pack, and anyone who would disagree will have me to contend with. Do you understand?” she implored as she sniffled.

It was hard for him to meet her eyes, but eventually, he did. She poured her resolution and love for him into her gaze, hoping against hope that he believed her. Because she could not afford to lose him now. She would never again, she vowed to herself.

Red-rimmed-eyed and shaking, Jon barely nodded, as if he did not believe her. It was a small start to be sure, but she would take it.

Sansa did not pray anymore, not really, but she prayed to the Old Gods and the New right then and there as she stood and pulled Jon from the chair and into her arms. She closed her eyes and prayed for her family and what was left of them after this. She wept with him as Jon grieved in her arms. When his sobs had quieted, she slowly stroked his back and vowed if she had to mend him stitch by stitch, she would do so. She prayed her love would be the strongest needle.

  
  
  
  



End file.
